Page 107 of The Bachelor

“Hi.” I inhaled deeply, his gaze becoming achingly overwhelming, and everything inside me was starting to tingle. “You’re right on time.”

My God, he looked incredible.

The backward baseball hat. The fitted white T-shirt. The gray sweatpants that hung low on his waist, showing the outline of his dick and a hint of his crown—a sight I hadn’t at all been prepared for.

“I ran home to shower and change, so technically, I am a few minutes late. You don’t mind, do you?”

Before I could respond, he was kissing me, gripping my butt, squeezing my cheeks. He was aligning our bodies so there wasn’t even air between us, giving me a taste of his mouth—something I’d missed since this morning—and a dose of his woodsy, citrus, and amber scent, which I’d been teased with when I went to his office before lunch.

Once he finally pulled away, he eyed me up and down before he passed to walk inside.

“Do I mind?” I laughed from behind him, checking out this angle of his outfit. “I definitely don’t mind you coming over in gray sweatpants. In fact, you could wear those every day, and I’d be the happiest girl alive.”

He smiled at me from over his shoulder.

That simple expression set my whole body on fire.

“You prefer sweats over the suit I wore today?”

“Hmm.” I shut the door and followed him into my kitchen. “You honestly look good in everything. But those”—I nodded toward his waist when he faced me—“I very much approve of.”

He winked. “I have them in every color, Oaklyn.”

“Other colors don’t matter. It has to be gray.” I bit my lip before I emphasized, “Always wear gray.”

He chuckled. “Noted.”

When he reached for the bottle of red wine that I’d opened earlier and left on the counter, I said, “I picked up some vodka. Would you rather have that?”

I was just walking by him to grab the liquor, but I didn’t make it more than a pace before he cinched my waist and pulled me over to him.

“Look at you, being all thoughtful.”

“I know what you drink.”

He nuzzled his face into my neck. “But do you know how I prefer you?”

I ran my fingers across his hard, chiseled back and up his defined shoulders. “Naked?”

“Fuck yes, but if we’re talking about clothing, I want you in yoga pants. Now, I just have to see you in green ones.”

“Why yoga pants?”

“Because it shows this”—his hand was behind me again, gripping the same spot he’d touched in the doorway—“and I’m fucking obsessed with it.”

“But it’s yours.”

His face hovered above mine. “Hearing you say that will never get old.” He kissed me again, his tongue slowly sliding into my mouth, his hands moving up my body, stopping when his palms reached my cheeks and his fingers extended over the side of my head. He kept us locked until he whispered against my lips, “What did you make? It’s all I can smell.”

I laughed at the way he growled the last word. “I kept things simple.”

“Even your eggs aren’t simple, Oaklyn. I don’t believe dinner would be either.”

I felt the droplets that had fallen down his neck and soaked his shirt from his wet, showered hair. “I really did. I just threw together a lasagna.”

His grip tightened. “Lasagna? You fucking didn’t?”

“With meat and extra ricotta.”

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